


Troubles by the Score

by TerribleAndSadThings



Series: Godsend [6]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Established Relationship, Friendship, Honest Hearts DLC, Lonesome Road DLC, M/M, Platonic Relationships, The Burned Man - Freeform, mentions of abuse, references to violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-19
Updated: 2018-06-19
Packaged: 2019-05-25 17:19:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14981891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TerribleAndSadThings/pseuds/TerribleAndSadThings
Summary: “Courier, have you ever been in a relationship before?”“Why? Is it hard?”





	Troubles by the Score

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. as usual, arcade is the voice of reason 2. as usual, joshua is a crazy person. 3. as usual, ulysses is so extra 4. it's not too long, but this is the last part in the series before the grand finale which will be multi-chaptered. 5. I might have more notes to add later, but I just got a computer that can run fallout 4 so I can play the entire thing through for the first time and I'm stupidly excited.

Arcade didn’t particularly want to know about the Courier’s sex life. To be clear, Arcade, under no circumstances, ever wanted to know about the Courier’s seemingly endless conquests and the weird shit he got up to with them. Yet he did because the Courier insisted on telling him. Sometimes before the sheets had even cooled and the cum dried, the Courier would saunter his disheveled self into Arcade’s room at the Lucky 38 and declare:

“Arcade, I just had sex.”

It was mind boggling really, how someone like the Courier managed to convince people to go to bed with him. The kid shot his mouth off more often than a trigger happy Fiend. He developed a twitch from eating Mentats like trail mix, and only recently did his piss stop glowing and only because Arcade confiscated the rest of his Nuka-Cola Quantum. 

Sure, the kid wasn’t the worst looking thing in the Mojave, pretty face and fit, but the thought of the Courier anywhere near his junk made Arcade’s skin crawl. Then again, Arcade had seen how terrifyingly good he was with his butterfly knife.

“Arcade, did you hear me? I said ‘I just had sex.’”

Despite himself, Arcade lifted his head from his book and answered. “I heard you. I’m just not sure why you’re telling me. Why you always tell me.”

The Courier shrugged and then flopped onto the bed. “I’m just sayin’.”

“Well, stop.”

The Courier scowled at him from his horizontal position. “It’s like you’re not happy for me at all.”

“I’m really not.”

“Wow, when was the last time you got laid?”

“Courier?”

“Hm?”

“Shut up.”

Scoffing, the Courier rolled over, putting his back to Arcade in a passive aggressive shunning. He turned up Radio New Vegas on his Pip-boy. Arcade rolled his eyes. It wouldn’t last more than ten minutes if that. For as stupidly stubborn as the Courier was, his need for attention outweighed any grudge he might hold against Arcade.

Returning to his book, Arcade found his spot and began again. After two pages filled with information he already knew, something occurred to Arcade. Slowly, Arcade raised his head and looked back to the Courier lying on Arcade’s bed, dressed in his grimy jacket and unlaced boots.

“Courier,”

The Courier began to sing along to “Heartaches by the Number,” his raspy voice unexpectedly in tune.

“Courier, when was the last time you went to Zion?”

Rolling onto his back so Arcade could see his profile, the Courier fiddled with his Pip-boy and began singing louder. “Yes, I've got heartaches by the number, a love that I can't win”

“Courier, who did you just sleep with?”

“Oh, so now you’re interested.” Although the Courier did his best to imbue each word with as much sarcasm as he could, he turned down the radio and glanced at Arcade from the corner of his eye.

“I thought you said you were in love with Joshua.”

At Joshua’s name, the Courier quit the pretense of indifference, shoving himself upright and shifting around to face Arcade. Legs dangling off the bed, he leaned back on his hands and tilted his head back to assess Arcade with narrowed eyes.

“I am in love with Joshua,” he confirmed, more than a bit defensive. “So what?”

For as admantly as he opposed the Courier’s devotion to a psychopath, Arcade made amends with it by telling himself at least they would never have to meet. It didn’t have anything to do with how happy it made the Courier. Nope. Arcade didn’t care about that.

“So where is Joshua now?”

“I don’t know. Probably shooting some people in Zion or something.” The Courier furrowed his brow and frowned before asking “Do you think he misses me? I haven’t been back in awhile.”

_Was when you came back again  
You came back but never meant to stay_

Arcade closed his book. “Courier, have you ever been in a relationship before?”

“Why? Is it hard?”

Very clearly, Arcade remembered the day the Courier swaggered into the Old Mormon Fort, fresh back from Zion. He announced quite confidently that Arcade was wrong and that Joshua Graham loved him too and they were in a relationship, but it was okay, he forgave Arcade. At the time, Arcade let it go. Didn’t really feel the need to get into the semantics of it all. Didn’t really feel like trying to convince the Courier of something he was dead set on not believing.

Arcade didn’t want to know the details of it. Arcade didn’t want to know at all. The Courier got what he wanted and they were right back to where they were before, the Courier getting into fights and Arcade fixing him. It was good that way. Just fine that way.

He knew better than to say what he was about to say. Knew better than to do what he was about to do. “Generally, people in relationships don’t go around fucking people who are not in the same relationship.”

The Courier rolled his eyes. “Yeah, okay, Arcade.”

“Courier, a relationship is called a ‘commitment’ for a reason.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re committed to the other person.”

The Courier stared at Arcade.

_Yes, I've got heartaches by the number  
A love that I can't win_

“As in you fuck that person exclusively.”

“What?”

“I am no way endorsing you informing Joshua of your recent escapades, but does he know that you’re still fucking around with other people?”

_I waited but you must have lost your way_

=

Seven weeks passed before the Courier returned to Zion Canyon. 

Each time the Courier left, Joshua knew he would return. Although he knew nearly nothing of the Courier’s life outside of Zion, Joshua trusted the Courier to return to him. Yet when he failed to appear with the regularity Joshua knew before, it weighed on him.

However, the Courier’s eventual reappearance did not ease him as it should have. From outside Angel’s Cave, Joshua watched as the Courier slunk into the Dead Horses camp. 

Twilight arrived with him, long shadows fading as night fell over them. Even so far away, Joshua knew the Courier could sense his gaze on him. The Courier had a supernatural awareness of where Joshua’s attention fell, usually demonstrated by whining when it wasn’t on him.

Since the Courier wormed his way into Joshua’s head and eventually his bed, Joshua came to expect certain behaviors. When the Courier didn’t make a beeline for him, didn’t throw himself into Joshua’s arms and bury his face in his neck, didn’t look at him at all, something sharp and hot twisted in Joshua’s chest.

Long ago, Joshua gave up attempting to justify the anger that simmered under his skin. By now Joshua knew what it was. By now Joshua could admit he was a weak man. This possessiveness of the Courier tasted too familiar, too close to the wrath he once convinced himself he had done away with.

It was irrational, how angry he became when the Courier turned his back to him, sidling up to Follows-Chalk instead. Follows-Chalk greeted the Courier with a wide smile and a word Joshua stood much to far away from to hear. A moment later, presumably after the Courier responded, Follows-Chalk frowned and raised his eyes to look directly at Joshua. His brow furrowed.

The Courier shoved Follows-Chalk hard enough he stumbled back. Snagging his wrist, the Courier tugged on his arm and then began dragging Follows-Chalk when he showed reluctance.

It occured to Joshua to intervene, to wrench them apart and force the Courier to look at him. When he had been younger, rasher, more selfish, he wouldn’t have hesitated. Perhaps his restraint could be attributed to wisdom earned by age or the grace of God, but Joshua knew it was only because the Courier would resent it.

Besides, if Joshua commanded it, the Courier would leave Follows-Chalk without looking back. Joshua would not need to ask for the Courier’s attentions or obedience. He need only to demand it.

The thought itself disgusted him. Joshua tore his gaze from them and forced himself to return to Angel’s Cave.

The Courier was not his to command. The Courier was godsent as both a trial and a gift. He had been a test Joshua failed and a blessing he could not explain. To expect more was gluttonous.

-

Barely an hour later, the Courier wandered in after him. As usual, the Courier walked silently, sauntering in as if never gone, as if the Courier had not noticed the gap of time that had gone by.

Joshua berated himself for his expectations. At no point had the Courier promised to return. After all he had done for Zion, the Courier had no obligation to any of them.

Perhaps the Courier truly hadn’t realized. Time meant little to the Courier, either unwilling to notice or oblivious to its passage.

Instead of a greeting, the Courier ambled up to where the bed roll where Joshua sat reading the Scripture. With a huff, he flopped himself down. Sprawling himself out, he took up as much room as he could manage with his small form. He huffed again. From his peripherals, Joshua caught the Courier peeking at him from the corner of his eye only to yank his gaze away the moment he noticed Joshua watching.

The same as he repressed the inexplicable ache in his chest, Joshua ignored the flicker of affection. He returned his attention to the Word of God.

Less than a minute later the Courier heaved a sigh.

Curtly, Joshua said, “Courier.” 

The Courier made a noise of dissatisfaction. Apparently interpreting Joshua’s acknowledgement as an invitation, the Courier rolled over, wormed himself under Joshua’s arm, and climbed on to his lap. After too many moments of wriggling around, the Courier managed to situate himself. Settling between Joshua’s legs, he leaned his back against Joshua’s chest.

Finally satisfied, the Courier sighed again, this time happy.

With measured motions, Joshua closed the Scripture and set it aside. Then, he rested one hand on the Courier’s abdomen. As if waiting for it, the Courier tugged his shirt up so bandages touched skin. He forced Joshua’s hand flat, covering it with his own to hold it there. Without clothing in the way, Joshua could feel the warmth of his skin seeping through the bandages.

Tipping his head back, the Courier looked up at Joshua. Instead of the crooked smile Joshua came to expect, he appeared solemn, doe eyes asking a question Joshua did not know.

“Courier,” Joshua repeated.

“Joshua, sometimes I fuck other people, but Arcade says that’s a bad thing if I’m in love with you.”

At first, Joshua could not make sense of the words. Objectively, he could dismantle the sentence, interpret its meaning for what it was. What Joshua could not process was that these words came from the Courier.

As his mind struggled to understand, time slowed. While the Courier still spoke, his voice came distant, muffled. With each moment, the rush of his heat spread through him. With each beat of his heart, the pounding in his head thumped harder. Within him, a fire that never quite died roared once more.

_I fuck other people._

Although Joshua still failed to decipher what he said, the Courier continued to speak. As he did, he absentmindedly played with Joshua’s hand, holding it in his, sliding his fingers between Joshua’s and then lacing them together.

Before, when Joshua had been grasping for any excuse that might keep him from the Courier, he considered the Courier’s obliviousness to societal expectations, let alone what might come within a relationship. If anything, Joshua had anticipated the possibility of the Courier not remaining faithful.

Yet faced with it now, Joshua could not rationalize it, could not remember how he recoiled the possibility with his expectation .

Now, Joshua recognized what fed the fury in him. Joshua recognized envy. Like an old friend, an old enemy, Joshua recognized his greatest sin of wrath.

Pulling Joshua’s hand to him, the Courier dipped his head to nuzzle Joshua’s palm. “I love you. Even when I fuck other people so I don’t really know why Arcade is being such a dickhead about it.

Involuntarily, without thought as to if his actions glorified God, without fair judgement at all, Joshua curled his fingers, clenching the Courier’s jaw in his hand. The Courier stilled.

For as pious as he acted, for as virtuous as he strived to be, Joshua could now see he was not. Never was. His pride blinded him, led him to self delusion, only for the Courier to tear it down.

Joshua could see now, the fire had not cleansed him. The flames scorched his soul, scouring the surface, but never reached the root of evil within him. With the passage of time and drawn out by the temptation Joshua had failed to resist, his wicked nature rose once more.

Now, Joshua saw his virtue to be false. Although he might be a vessel of the Lord’s will, he was not a man of the Lord. Joshua was barely a man. Instead, Joshua embodied wrath. Envy flooded him. 

Lowering his head next to the Courier’s ear, Joshua spoke. “You will not fuck other people.”

The Courier squirmed, huddling closer against Joshua, but trying to pull his face free from his grip. Joshua refused to allow him. The Courier made a frustrated sound and brought both his hands to Joshua’s, attempting to pry himself free. Still, Joshua did not relent. He snaked his free hand under the Courier’s arm and wrapped it around his throat.

Instead of stilling, the Courier writhed more violently. He dug his fingers into Joshua’s bandages, but chewed down nails made no difference. Joshua tightened his grip on the Courier’s throat. The Courier bucked his hips before shuddering and falling slack. Against his hand, even through his bandages, Joshua could feel the quick pants of the Courier. After another noise of outrage, the Courier began cursing. Although his mouth was covered, Joshua recognized the tone.

“Do you understand?”

The Courier huffed.

Loosening his grip, Joshua asked him again, “do you understand?”

The Courier laughed, breathless and bitter. “Fucking stop me.”

=

Day broke. The red smog of the Divide hung heavy, blocking out the sun. From the Crow’s Nest, Ulysses tracked the movements of two Deathclaws prowling the overpass with his scope. The sniper rifle was another gift from the Courier, one more easily accepted than the last. 

The Courier told him it was once Christine’s, the Knight from the Circle of Steel. As incredible as the claim should have been, Ulysses believed him. Fate hung heavy over the Courier. Of course his path would have led to the Big Empty. Of course he would have been the one to end Elijah.

When the Courier crawled over the crumbling wall and dropped beside him, Ulysses took the rifle from his shoulder and propped it against the wall. Although Ulysses could not fathom how the Courier managed to reach the top of the wreckage from the opposite side of the building, he did not question it. As impossible as the action was, the one who committed it was moreso. 

For as unpredictable and chaotic as the Courier was, Ulysses did not startle at his unexpected arrival. Instead, a tension inside him eased. Until Ulysses turned his eyes to him.

Wordlessly, the Courier flopped down with a huff. Wrinkling his nose, he tossed two disabled frag mines on the ground beside him. Tipping his head back to rest against the wall, the Courier closed his eyes and sighed.

The anxious restlessness the Courier’s presence usually relieved returned.

“What happened?”

Without opening his eyes, the Courier screwed up his face and replied, “nuthin’.”

Despite himself, his intent to let things rest, let the Courier rest, Ulysses pressed. “Courier.”

Cracking his eyes open, the Courier eyed Ulysses. After a moment, he snorted and closed his eyes once more. “Lost a fight.”

So high above, the harsh winds of the divide howled, muting any other sound, muffling his rough voice, no doubt caused by his injury. Below them the winds swept along the ruined asphalt, dragging clouds of dust and debris over the wreckage. The Divide suited the Courier, the ruins as much as the settlement had. Ulysses knew the Courier had come from the east, but he was born for the sand, heat, and blood of the Mojave.

Bruises did not belong on the Courier. Stone and sun did not bruise. Yet a bruise in the shape of a hand circled his throat and another his jaw. Blood he had not bothered to wipe off flaked, a trail running from his hairline to his chin. The knuckles on both of his hands had been torn bloody as if he had punched concrete.

Voice low, but heavy enough to be heard, Ulysses said, “Moroni.”

The Courier lifted his head and opened his eyes to fix Ulysses with a glare. “I lost a fight.”

Through the years that passed between them, in their history, Ulysses learned the Courier. He learned slowly, painfully. What he took from those lessons had been proven wrong as many times as he had been right. More than he had been right. 

However, more than the events he interpreted, Ulysses knew what he had witnessed. In the most indisputable sense, a reality not tainted by his guilt or grief, the Courier did not lose. All he had come to learn of the Courier, of the great and terrible power he possessed, Ulysses knew with absolute certainty if the Courier lost a fight it would be because it killed him.

Cripple the Bear, behead the Bull, beat the House, the Courier still stood. Instinctively, intrinsically, Ulysses knew if the Courier came to him, bloodied and beaten, downtrodden instead of enthused, it was because whatever, whoever committed such an act against him lived.

The Courier came to Ulysses not because he lost a fight, but because he didn’t fight back. Of all the stories the Courier told, the people he had met, of those who he would not harm, Ulysses only knew of one capable of such violence.

Ulysses had not meant to press but as with most things he forced significance upon, he could not leave it be.

“You should have killed him for what he’s done.”

The Courier jerked back as if Ulysses struck him, eyes wide and lips parted in surprise.

“This will not be the last time, Courier.”

Collecting himself, the Courier scowled. He clenched his jaw hunched his shoulders, looking smaller in his too big jacket. Sulking, he glared somewhere over Ulysses shoulder, into the distance.

“Men like Graham do not change, Courier. This will not be the last time.”

Ulysses expected the Courier to react much as he had last time they spoke of Graham. He expected the Courier to explode with anger, curse Ulysses and storm off. Instead the Courier hung his head turning his eyes down the where his bloody hands rested limp on his lap.

In a small voice, one Ulysses had never heard from him before, the Courier said, “but I love him.”

Ulysses did not reply. There was nothing more to be said.


End file.
